That Little Room

Jack leaned on his mop and paused in his work. His brain slowly started to think again as the routine was interrupted. The unlit cigarette twitched on his lips. He looked out the window at the gas station. The aging pumps were washed in the fluorescents in the night. The light made the metal gleam and the sun bleached hoses dull. The whole outside of the station had the feel about it of a building that was simply waiting to be abandoned. Even the asphalt lot the station was built on looked tiered with it’s sagging crumbling edges. For the most part, as long as the desert stayed on its side of the door Jack cared little about the outside of the building.
The inside of the station however, was kept up by Jack’s endless cleaning. Everything shined brightly and was in its place. The floors were free of sticky film. Even the bags of potato chips were in neat rows. Jack’s eyes wandered down to the mop head. His pause in the cleaning had let some of the mop water ooze onto the floor. He looked at the dirty brown water as it stood out so clearly on the white floor. He returned to the cleaning routine and his mind fell away from reality again.

Jack looked down at his watch and sighed. He wheeled his mop bucket back to the cleaning closet and gathered some chemicals. “Hey Rodger,” he says leaning into the manager’s office, “going out to clean the bathroom.” Rodger sat hunched over the keyboard in Covey’s office, banging out a report for one class or another.
“Mmm… Kay. Really, you shouldn’t bother though. The rest of the place looks like Mr. Clean murdered the Scrubbing bubbles. Nobody cares about the bathroom.”
Jack didn’t argue, he simply wheeled his bucket out the doors and around the corner.
         The door to the bathroom opened with an oily moan. Moon light from behind Jack showed a floor slick with filth. Whatever color the tiles had been originally was now long lost under the sheen of brown.  Jack shoved the bucket through the door and into a corner. He locked the door and flipped the lights on. A single hanging bulb flickered and spat a yellow light over the walls. Jack stood in front of the heavily stained sink and reached into his pocket. He set a metal case on the greasy porcelain and pulled a plastic bottle from his pocket. He tapped two pills out into his palm and knocked them back. He opened the case and pulled a small calendar out. The edges of the paper were worn, but the rest was in perfect condition. “Outland Free Clinic” was still clearly readable on the cover. Jack opened it to this month and scanned the current week. “Monday, left arm… Tuesday, stomach… Wednesday…” He rummaged in his pocket and found a pen, “…right arm.” He slipped the calendar back into the prongs that held it to the inside of the case and retrieved the syringe and glass bottle. The pills were easy to hide, or explain away. A headache or sinuses, and no one gave it a second thought. He weighed the cold glass in his hand. This however, had to be hidden. He thought about passing it off as insulin, but he had no way of faking blood tests. Then they’d know, and think he was some kind of freak. He measured out the proper amount of the liquid and tapped the syringe, checking for air. His flesh went cold as the needle entered. He hated the drugs, but the cold fact was that he could not live with out them. Finished, he carefully cleaned everything and packed it away. Jack leaned on the sink and stared into the cracked mirror as he waited for the drugs to take effect. He always thought he could feel them moving under his skin. He rubbed at his arm in an attempt to force away the chill in his veins.
         
The bucket jumped and jerked over the asphalt as Jack pushed it back to the doors. Mop water sloshed up over the sides and splashed on Jack’s shoes. He tried to ignore it for the most part. He didn’t mind if his shoes got stained so long as his uniform stayed relatively clean. Wrestling the bucket through the doors, Jack noticed that Rodger was now behind the counter, text books spread out all over the place and a pile of papers slowly sliding towards the edge of the desk.
“Slow night eh?” Rodger said looking up. Jack slid the bucket back into the cleaning closet and shut it.
“Yeah, slow. Just like every other night.”

         This evening was the same as usual. Rodger was in the boss’ office cranking out a paper the night before it was due. Jack, having finished cleaning even to his standards, was trying to repair an old portable TV. Time passed in varying speeds as Jack tested and cleaned all of the connections. A car pulled up to the pumps and a woman got out. Jack continued to fiddle with the TV, it would be a while before they figured out the reason they couldn’t pump any gas was that they had to prepay after dark.
“They never read the sign.” He muttered.
A few moments later, a young lady came into the station to pay. At this moment, Jack took his first actual look at the woman. Jack went ridged and a scowl washed over his features. She was too much like her he decided. He tried not to look at the woman as she fished for money in her pocket, tilting her head to the side in an almost playful manner.
“There we are!” She said. “Twenty dollar’s worth please!”
Jack took the money with a timid hand, careful not to touch the woman’s fingers. He rang the sale up and slammed the register drawer shut before pressing number five on the control pad.
“Pump’s on. Twen’y bucks.” He fell back into his chair and became intent on the television. However, he couldn’t help but watch as the woman left the room. She looked like her form behind as well.
         Jack felt a hot flush of anger and desire at the memories that were dominating his brain. He could feel her voice on the back on his neck. Whispering that they were meant to be together, so they should be together in every way, that all their passion should be given form.
A loud crack filled the room. Jack had punched the screwdriver through the TV plastic case. The smell of broken silicon wheezed out at him. He stood from the counter and threw the television into the trash with a thud. He stalked to the back and retrieved his bucket.
         Lifting the bucket into the sink he started running the water, putting his hand under it to test the temperature. He relaxed his muscles as he concentrated on the water flowing over his hand and into the bucket. He started going over the pattern for mopping the floor in the most efficient way while listing to the white noise of the tap.
“From the soda to the beer. The chips to the cakes and back. ‘S’ patterns after that.”
The bucket full he set to cleaning the floor. But, his mind wasn’t clicking off as usual. He tried everything he’d taught him self to stop thinking. He mopped the floor of the main room slowly, trying to focus on the water and the tile. But faces and words kept usurping his mind. Visions of her, of his parents, of all the lies he’d told. His grip on the mop became tighter as he worked, forcing the blood out of his knuckles.
         Eventually, Jack ran out of floor to mop, but the thoughts refused to lie down. Looking around for anything to distract him he headed to the back to mop the floors there. Rodger was gathering his things from the boss’s desk.
“Hey, I thought I heard the bucket rolling around.”
“You done in here?” Jack asked.
“Uh, yeah I guess. Why?”
“Going to mop the floor.”
Rodger looked down at the tile. “But it doesn’t really-“
”Going or not?”
“Yeah, yeah sure.” Rodger gathered the last of his books and proceeded to the front. Jack shut the door and started squirting “Mop n’ Glow” on the tile.
         
Jack, finished with the floor, leaned on the edge of the boss’ desk and rubbed his face. He’d managed to calm down some, but he still could not fully suppress his mind. He took deep breaths and focused, when his watch beeped at him. It was past the time for his medication. He pounded his fist on the desk and swore. He simply couldn’t escape it. Soon, he would need even more just to stay even. He was running out of delusions, and money. Panic started to swell up in him faster than he could clamp it down. He turned to get his bucket, when he saw the safe.
         He slowly stood as he took in the dull grey box. He knew the combination from when he was the day shift assistant manager, and he knew what was in it. Suddenly the panic slowed to a sluggish trickle in hi mind. Crouching next to his bucket he spun the dial and opened the safe door. In it were several stacks of money, mainly hundreds, an unopened “Blue ribbon” apple pie, an old semi-automatic pistol and a framed picture of Mrs. Covey. Jack quickly took what he needed and stuffed it into his pocket. Shutting the safe, he took his bucket and left the room. Wheeling past Rodger he headed for the door.
“Going to clean the bathroom now?’ Rodger asked, looking up. Jack froze, one foot outside, holding the door open with his back. He looked over at Rodger, wondering if he suspected anything. The weight in his pocket seemed to pull on his leg. Did it even matter if Rodger suspected? Once he was out the door it wouldn’t.
“Yeah, gotta stay on top of it, or it might get even worse.” Jack didn’t wait for a response; he pushed the bucket through the door and onto the pavement.
         Jack locked the bathroom door. He grabbed a bottle of bleach from the cleaning bucket and rolled the mop into the corner. Clutching the bottle he stepped up to the mirror and looked at him self. The memories flooded over him. He wanted to blame the woman at the station tonight for this, but the fact was he simply couldn’t stay in this state anymore. He ground his teeth as he tried one last time to fight off his own mind. Yet memories of his mother making him sandwiches, of his father reading to him caused his eyes to burn. Thoughts of his unborn children, that he had murdered them force a small whimper from his lips. He tore the cap off the bleach and poured it on the floor. He sloshed some onto the walls and door. He threw the empty bottle away and plunged his hand into his pocket, pulling the pistol out. It was cold and heavy in his hand, dull in the yellow light. He pulled the slide back and checked the chamber. The sound of the gun’s action clicking filled the room. Where there should have been a bullet, there was just more dull grey. Jack slumped to the floor and wept. His mind cracked open and, with no defenses left, he faced it. His skin burned and chafed as the bleach seeped through his clothes. Slowly, he came back to him self and opened his eyes.
The scene swam before his blurry eyes, yellow light bending through his tears. He leaned forward, eyes locked on the floor. The fumes tearing at his eyes as he leaned closer. On the tile, under a half inch of bleach, he could see a small spot of white showing through.